The Golden Compass
The paper is thin, cheap, and smells of the damp cellar where it was forged, but the seal is perfect, a crimson wax impression of the Crown that catches the grey light of the courtyard with a deceptive, oily sheen. You hold it in your left hand, the one that is trembling slightly from the cold, while your right hand grips the iron railing of the gate, feeling the vibration of the heavy doors...
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